Shiva returned from Daksha's yajna, and yet Sati's loss lingered in his mind heavily. A profound sorrow gripped him, and overwhelmed, he let out a roar that reverberated across the heavens. Snow avalanches tumbled down Kailasa's peaks, and rivers swelled from his streaming tears.
"My eternal companion is lost!" Shiva lamented. His body trembled with such force that quakes rippled through the three worlds. The ganas, his devoted attendants, gathered around, trying to console him.
But Shiva's grief was overwhelming, humanizing the divine destroyer, who was supposed to be above such mortal feelings.
It reminds one that attachment ultimately brings pain, even for gods who transcended it. His third eye flickered dangerously, threatening to unleash flames of annihilation.
Consumed by anguish, Shiva abandoned the sanctity of Kailasa, transforming into his fierce Bhairava (extreme) form. Smeared thicker with ashes from funeral pyres, garlanded with chattering skulls, and guarded by hissing serpents that coiled protectively around his neck, he wandered the desolate cremation grounds where mortals met their end.
"This is where all illusions burn," Shiva muttered to himself in sorrow and frustration. Ghosts and spirits swirled around him like mists. "Join my dance, O wanderers of the veil," he invited them.
Shiva launched into the tandava, the cosmic dance of destruction. His movements were a whirlwind. His arms flailed like tempests, and his feet stomped rhythms that cracked the Earth.
Flames erupted from Shiva's third eye, scorching phantoms of past joys and illusions of permanence.
A wandering spirit bowed. "Lord, your sorrow mirrors our eternal unrest."
Shiva replied, "Life's transience is the ultimate truth. Vairagya, or willful detachment, is the path to peace."
As nights blurred into endless sorrow, magical apparitions began to haunt Shiva's solitary path. Sati's ethereal form materialized before him, clad in her wedding silks. Her eyes were filled with the same love that had united them.
"My lord," the apparition whispered, extending a garland of jasmine that faded into mist upon touch. "Our bond transcends this separation. Don't be upset."
Shiva reached out to the phantom Sati, his hand passing through the illusion. "Sati, why do you taunt me like this?" he cried, collapsing to his knees amid the ashes. "Come back to me."
These hauntings intensified during his meditations. Visions of their joyful moments on Kailasa, Sati's laughter echoing like temple bells. Temptations arose in Shiva. Indulgent feasts and bodily comforts beckoned him to abandon grief and indulge in material happiness.
But Shiva resisted. "Shakti is inseparable from Shiva," he affirmed, drawing on the divine feminine's wisdom. Even those with infinite power need to have faith.
Driven deeper into isolation, Shiva intensified his tapasya (austerities), seeking solace in rigorous meditation on remote Himalayan peaks and hidden caves. He perched on icy ledges, subsisting solely on prana, the vital air.
Shiva's eyes closed for what felt like entire yugas (epochs). His body grew emaciated and yet radiated an inner fire that melted surrounding snow into sacred streams.
Wandering ascetics approached him with reverence. "Mahadeva, the world languishes without your guidance," one sage pleaded. "Demons are ravaging humans and gods unchecked."
Shiva, breaking the silence briefly, replied. "The prophecies will unfold in time. Have faith in karma and reincarnation. Balance will be restored."
***
With Shiva withdrawn, opportunistic demons plunged the universe into chaos. Taraka-sura was their leader.
In the shadowy depths of the netherworlds, Taraka emerged as a force of unbridled ambition. He harbored a burning vengeance against the gods. "The devas have lorded over us too long," he growled to his followers in Patala-loka (netherworld). "I will claim what is ours. Absolute power."
Driven by this thirst, he embarked on severe tapasya, an ascetic penance that tested the limits of even demonic endurance. Standing on one toe for millennia, he endured scorching winds, relentless rains, and the gnawing hunger of isolation.
Brahma, the creator, could no longer ignore such extreme austerity. Appearing in a blaze of golden light, Brahma addressed the asura, "Your penance pleases me, Taraka. Ask for a boon, and it shall be granted."
Brahma's offer of a boon came with reluctance, because the creator sensed the chaos it might unleash.
Taraka's cunning mind raced. He knew boons from the trinity often carried hidden flaws, but he aimed to outwit fate itself.
Taraka demanded boldly, "Grant me invincibility. No god, demon, or being in the three worlds shall equal my strength or slay me."
Brahma, bound by the laws of dharma, replied gravely, "Absolute invincibility disrupts cosmic balance. I cannot grant that. But no one shall match your power, and death will come only at the hands of Shiva's son, a child no older than seven days."
Taraka threw back his head and laughed maniacally. "Shiva grieves alone on Kailasa, withdrawn from love and life! No wife, no son. I bow before you, Lord Brahma! Your boon makes me eternal!"
Brahma vanished with a sigh, knowing the irony of karma. The boon's effects were instant. Taraka's form swelled with newfound energy, and powerful weapons and magic were added to his arsenal.
Emboldened by the boon, Taraka launched his initial rampage, forcing alliances among the demon clans. He summoned daityas and danavas, the two major races of asuras, to his banner.
"Join me, brothers!" Taraka rallied them in a thunderous assembly. "The gods are weak, now that Shiva isolates himself. Together, we can crush their godly realms!"
Surapadma, a fierce demon lord, pledged his loyalty: "My legions are yours. We'll bathe the heavens in blood!"
The coalition stormed the lower realms first, invading the rest of Patala, where nagas (serpent race) dwelled. Serpentine kings like Shesha resisted their onslaught, but Taraka's forces overwhelmed them, toppling underground palaces and seizing treasures.
"Surrender your gems, elixirs, and women!" Taraka demanded.
On Earth, his rampage escalated further. Forests were burned, rivers poisoned, and mortals fled in terror.
Kings and villagers alike fell to their knees, praying to Vishnu. "Preserver, save us from this adharma!"
Sages in ashrams (monasteries) chanted protective mantras (incantations) in vain. Taraka's tyranny spread like wildfire, testing the faithful's resolve.
The assault on Indraloka marked the pinnacle of Taraka's audacity. He ascended through swirling clouds with his demonic legions, their war cries piercing the skies.
"Today, Swarga falls!" he bellowed. With his demonic power, Taraka hurled enchanted mountains as missiles, forming massive craters in heaven's gardens.
Indra, king of the gods, rallied his forces to protect his kingdom. "Defend our home, devas!" Indra commanded, mounting his elephant Airavata and unleashing thunderbolts from his Vajra.
Elephants trumpeted battle calls, while gandharvas (winged musicians) sang war hymns.
Agni, the fire god, hurled fireballs at the demons. "Burn them to a crisp!"
Varuna summoned tidal waves. "Drown the invaders!"
All their efforts barely made a dent in Taraka's progress. Brahma's boon rendered him untouchable. Arrows shattered against his skin, flames licked him harmlessly, while waters parted before him.
Taraka's mace felled divine warriors by the thousands until Indra's jeweled palace turned into rubble. "Your weapons are toys!" he mocked, grabbing Airavata by the trunk and flinging it aside.
Even Yama, the god of death, was ineffective. Taraka snapped his weapons effortlessly.
The heavens bled divine blood, and its gardens wilted under demonic boots. The gods' defeat came swiftly, leading to a humiliating exile and irreparable despair.
As Taraka's forces overran Swarga, the devas scattered to other realms. Indra fled into storm clouds, cloaking himself in mist.
"Retreat to Vaikuntha (Vishnu's abode)!" he shouted to the survivors. Agni dimmed his flames, hiding in earthly hearths, while Varuna dove into hidden seas.
Taraka crowned himself the new king of the heavens and lounged on Indra's throne. "Feast, my warriors! Have the jewels and women of your choice. Swarga is mine!"
His minions plundered the rich stores of amrita, the nectar of immortality. They began spreading adharma across realms. Lesser demons also joined the fray on Earth, desecrating temples and terrorizing sages.
The universe tilted under Taraka's tyranny. Seasons were disrupted, with endless winters freezing crops and scorching summers drying rivers.
Stars dimmed in the night sky, while comets streaked like warnings from the gods. Animals wailed unnaturally, earthquakes split sacred mountains, and eclipses lingered unnaturally long.
As is the nature of destiny, the mortals suffered most. Famines ravaged lands, diseases spread unchecked, and kings lost thrones to demonic puppets.
In the midst of despair, Indra, utterly defeated, fled to Vishnu's abode with Brahma and the other demigods. "My Lord. Shiva's sorrow dooms us all. On the other hand, Taraka's tyranny knows no bounds. Kindly rescue us!"
Brahma nodded gravely, "I am afraid even Lord Vishnu cannot help you at this stage. The prophecies foretell a savior, a chosen one from Shiva's bloodline, who can end Taraka's terror. However, Shiva's self-isolation delays fate's progress."
Vishnu, ever the strategist, addressed the assembly. "We must rouse Shiva from his grief through love's gentle call," he urged. "The cycle of rebirth demands that a new union is made."
Brahma concurred. "I know what is to come. Her name is Parvati. She is Shakti reborn."
Narada, the wandering sage, strummed his veena and suggested as follows. "Approach Himalaya and pray for Parvati's birth as his daughter."
Emissaries descended to the mountain king. "O Himalaya," Indra implored. "Kindly beget a child who embodies divine energy—an incarnation fierce enough to melt Shiva's heart."
Himalaya and his wife Mena did the needful. When the time arrived, divine signs appeared. Lotuses bloomed in snow, while celestial lights danced. A great renewal was coming.
Sages in the Naimisha forest reflected on the events. "From this darkness…" the monk Lomasha narrated. "Springs light. Parvati's incarnation will be a precursor to the warrior-son's arrival, who is destined to slay Taraka."
Shiva, deep in meditation, sensed faint stirrings in the ether. He whispered to the winds. "The wheel turns again. My beloved… I await our reunion."
The demon-king Taraka, oblivious of these events, continued to plunder, kill, and enslave.